


Pigeons

by Trawler



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: COVID-19, Hobbies, Humour, IronStrange, M/M, Pigeons, Sass, attitude, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25864282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trawler/pseuds/Trawler
Summary: Everyone's been affected by Covid-19, including the Avengers. To maintain some semblance of normalcy, Tony starts feeding his local birds.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Comments: 7
Kudos: 67





	Pigeons

“Stephen… no, hey, Stephen, I gotta get up.”

“Five more minutes?” Stephen wrapped his arms more tightly around me and pressed warm, dry kisses to the side of my neck. While my dick was certainly down with another five minutes – or fifteen, or twenty, or a nice round hour – my brain was a little less thrilled. I had things to do.

“Those pigeons aren’t going to feed themselves,” I warned.

“Tony.” He huffed a sigh and rolled away from me, flopping back against the pillows. “They absolutely will feed themselves. They’re wild animals. That’s kind of what they do.”

“But these are _my_ pigeons and I’ve been _feeding_ them,” I said, as if that explained everything. 

Stephen slid his hand over my chest, fingertips deliberately brushing my nipples. Oh boy. He didn’t fight fair.

“They’ll still be there in fifteen minutes,” he murmured in my ear.

“Fifteen minutes? You cheap bastard.” I grabbed his hand with both of mine, firmly pushing it away from me. “Now get lost and let me feed my birds.”

He snickered and rolled away, taking the blanket with him. After a few quick twists he’d wrapped himself up like a burrito, facing away from me, leaving me completely exposed to the room’s cool air.

“Gonna make you pay for that, asshole,” I muttered, sitting up and rolling out of bed. 

His sleepy rumble told me he didn’t give a shit. I waved a hand at him – whatever – and reached for the nearest item of clothing, a pair of pale grey sweatpants Stephen had peeled off me last night and thrown across the back of a chair. I pulled them on and padded across to the French doors.

We were in our third month of lockdown – or was it the fourth or fifth? – due to this goddamned Covid-19. The economy was ravaged, people were ravaged, and there was disinformation everywhere. Some folk wore masks. Some refused. Some peddled rumours and outright lies. I was pouring as much money as I could into getting my country through this; Stark Industries was at the forefront of vaccine development, of face-mask distribution, of medical care. It was good to use my money for a worthy cause, but I wasn’t doing it for the PR; I was doing it because it was the right thing to do. No matter what kind of administration we had (and the less said about that, the better) big companies had a moral responsibility to help out however we could.

But on the other side of the professional coin – the Avengers’ side – life had got real quiet. We were locked down, but most of the criminals were, too. Petey kept up his socially-distanced patrols above New York’s streets, but they were largely deserted. There were no coups for Nat to infiltrate, no armies for the Cap to go up against, and no aliens for me to bitch-slap back to their own galaxy. Of us all, Stephen was the only one who kept up the nine-to-five (not that he’d ever really _had_ a nine-to-five since becoming a wizard) but he wasn’t confined to Earth: - his job was everywhere. He spent his days among eldritch terrors I had no name for. His immune system was, quite literally, out of this world.

I had a notoriously low boredom threshold. I worked out, chaired video-meetings, took up new hobbies… but the one thing I did with consistency, the only thing I really looked forward to (apart from any time spent with Stephen) was feeding my pigeons.

I wasn’t exactly a pigeon fancier. But since lockdown, watching the birds had become this… I don’t know… this point of consistency. We had all kinds of birds here – crows, jays, sparrows galore – but the pigeons? They were _relatable._ They worked hard, every day, and they didn’t give up. They had attitude. In their own way, they _were_ New York: - loud, brash, shouting to get what they wanted. Fighting for their place in the world. And I had absolutely fallen in love with them.

I pushed open both French doors, deliberately letting in the cool early morning air, hoping it would filter through Stephen’s cocoon but suspecting I was just making myself colder. I padded out to the balcony, trying not to shiver, trying to ignore the cold metal against my bare feet. I spotted a row of pigeons perched in the trees across the driveway, huddling together for warmth, feathers puffed out. They preened themselves and each other. They seemed disinterested, but I knew better – they were waiting. Watching. I had their attention, however much they tried to hide it. That’s right, buddies, all eyes on me.

I blew into my hands to warm them up, then walked over to the dedicated feeding station I’d built at the far end of the balcony. This part was overlooked by the Compound’s open-plan living area, the kitchen, and several of the bedrooms, but most importantly it was overlooked by my lab. Yeah, I watched the birds when I should be working. So sue me. I could multi-task. 

I could have built the feeding station to be entirely automated – had even designed the thing in my head – before I decided to keep things more traditional. This was my connection to nature. Something I’d never really had before. Every part of my life was ultra-modern, ultra-refined, ultra-high tech. Building the big wooden bird table had made me feel more grounded. It was a point of regularity in a day that had none, a routine. Something normal. Stephen understood that, too, in fact he’d understood it a lot earlier than I had. But he’d always been way more in tune with this kind of thing than me. Wizards, man.

I knew I’d never stop feeding the pigeons. It wasn’t just about keeping a routine in lockdown. It was about keeping a routine in my whole life. Being Iron Man… there was no regularity, no consistency. Before that, before Afghanistan, I _had_ kept a routine (of sorts) – parties, board meetings, hangovers. The playboy side of me was gone, but Iron Man had come right up to take his place. And he didn’t wait for anyone. 

Even my relationship with Stephen – something that had calmed me the fuck down, levelled my life out, made me a better person in so many ways – even that was irregular. He lived in the New York Sanctum and was never more than a portal away, but when he went to Kamar-Taj? He could be gone for days, weeks sometimes. Once he’d been gone for almost two months. No communication. No contact. I’d almost gone out of my mind. He’d told me later (much, much later, after kissing led to touching, and touching led to us being locked in a room for two days straight) he’d had to go off-world. From the dark, far-away look in his eyes, I’d been pretty sure that was code for ‘I almost died’. I never pushed him for details. I trusted he’d tell me what happened when he was ready. If he didn’t, then he wasn’t ready.

So I picked up the wooden scoop, opened the plastic bucket, and pulled out a generous measure of seed. I emptied the water bowl and held it under the faucet I’d installed on the side of the building. I put the seed and water on the table and stepped back, standing in front of the open French doors. 

They would come singly, or in twos and threes, but my first visitor was alone. A single bird peeled away from the main flock and swooped over to the balcony. She – I assumed it was a she, with pigeons it was hard to tell – landed neatly on the railing, ruffled her feathers, then edged along the metal bar. She hopped up to the edge of the table and peered at me with wide, orange-red eyes. 

“It’s rude to stare, honey.” 

I blinked. I looked suspiciously over my shoulder. Stephen was still wrapped up in the blanket.

“That’s right, you great galoot.” She had a strong Bronx accent. “I’m talkin’ to you. You deaf or what?”

Her beak was moving… the sound appeared to be coming from... no, it couldn’t be.

A second pigeon hopped off the branch, wings flapping heavily as he landed on the balcony railing. He hopped closer to the bird-table until he was just a few inches away. I kept right on staring.

“Here, Morty, he thinks he’s hallucinatin’,” the first bird said. Appeared to say, because of _course_ pigeons couldn’t talk.

His beak opened and closed, clacking together. Was he… was he _laughing_ at me? 

“Sylvie,” he said, bobbing his head in what I took to be a greeting. “Why you wastin’ time talkin’ to a human?” His accent was just as heavy as hers. “They’re so dumb.”

“Hey, genius here!” I said, stung into speaking. Then I realised I’d just answered a figment of my imagination, and looked away. “Oh, dear Lord. The pigeons are talking back,” I muttered. “ _How_ many months of lockdown have we had?”

“Morty, you idiot!” Sylvie beat her wings at the other bird. He hopped away, wings spread wide to maintain his balance. “This flightless flesh-bag keeps feedin’ us! You wanna scare him away?”

Me, scared of a pigeon. Right. A talking pigeon… who had a beak on her like Carla from _Cheers..._ nope, nothing to be scared about there.

“Alright, alright, keep your tail feathers on,” Morty said, lifting a leg to scratch his neck. His claws worked into the feathers, head tilted to one side, before he resumed his position. “Talkin’ of food...” He stretched his neck toward the table. 

“Clear off, you fat bastard.” Sylvie pecked him. He dodged with a long suffering sigh.

“So, uh… you, uh, you wanna fuck?” he asked, ducking his head in a bobbing movement. His feathers had puffed out, making him seem larger. My balcony – Tinder, but for birds. Great.

Sylvie lunged and pecked his head. He spread his wings and fled in a flurry of feathers, the sound of his wings loud in the early morning air. He landed in the trees and found a place within the rest of the flock.

I looked at Sylvie. She looked at me. She dipped her head to the bird-table, maintaining eye contact until the last second.

I watched as she stuffed herself full of seed, full crop making her neck bulge. I wanted to say something – anything – even just a ‘hi, how are ya’ but… I just couldn’t. I couldn’t acknowledge aloud that my pigeons – my regular, every-day, routine pigeons – were talking.

The concept of talking animals was nothing new (I’d had a conversation or two with Rocket Racoon, back when we were fighting Thanos) but this was different. This was _my_ world. _My_ pigeons. _My_ routine. A routine that didn’t involve talking birds.

Quiet movement snagged my attention. I turned to see Stephen shuffling over, wrapped in the blanket and looking like the world’s sleepiest, most adorable Roman senator. He yawned, peering over my shoulder.

He nodded at her. “’Sup, Sylvie.”

The bird raised her head, fixing him with a direct, orange-eyed look.

“Hey, buddy. Your human looks like he’s gonna pass out.”

“You…?” I looked at them both, gaze flicking between them.

Stephen’s hand gripped my shoulder. His skin was warm against mine.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured, his lips finding the back of my neck. My shiver had nothing to do with the cold air. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

“You know what? Sure. Why the hell not.” I slid my arm around his waist, guiding him back inside, winking at Sylvie. If I could take aliens in my stride, I could take this, too. 

I closed the French doors… and the curtains. 

END


End file.
